


Spraying Life

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many colours in the city, the vibrant red of the busses, the deep black of the cabs, the many grey tones of the pavements. Nobody understands. He's tried and tried, but everybody only shakes their head at him and pats his head good-naturedly when he attempts to explain how many colours there are. Raz' first graffiti, written for a tumblr challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spraying Life

**Author's Note:**

> This month's Let's write Sherlock challenge was about firsts, and since I am still obsessed with minor characters, I chose Raz' first graffiti. Enjoy!

There are so many colours in the city, the vibrant red of the busses, the deep black of the cabs, the many grey tones of the pavements. Nobody understands. He's tried and tried, but everybody only shakes their head at him and pats his head good-naturedly when he attempts to explain how many colours there are.

Rose-red is not the same as sunset-red. The leaves of every tree possess their own particular shade of green. The blue of the night sky at two am is deeper and darker than that at four am. It is obvious to him. He thought it must be obvious to everyone else.

It isn't, and since his first day at reception, he has found that he is considered strange – the strange quiet child. The child obsessed with crayons.

Because, if reception didn't bring him friends, it brought him this.

He didn't have that many crayons at home for the simple reason that he didn't know there were so many. He thought they were made by grown-ups and because grown-ups didn't understand colours they wouldn't understand that they had to make one for each colour. Then he went into the room and saw the many crayons.

He spent the day doodling and when his mother came to pick him up, he begged her to buy him more colours. She complied and this is how he has spent the last eleven years of his life.

Drawing. Bringing colours to a white blank, spreading them over paper, attempting to make people see. They haven't yet, but he isn't going to stop trying. The colours are too beautiful for that.

He knows that sometimes, his parents are worried about him. But he isn't lonely. And he does well at school, even if he has no friends and the teachers think he doesn't pay attention. He does. But he happens to look around himself while he does so. Why should he focus on the teacher when he can simply listens and look out the window at the same time?

The crayons have been replaced with water colours and oil paint and pencils, although he still uses them now and then when he wants to get a special effect or a certain shade. His room is full of paintings, like the rest of the house, really. His parents have always been supportive, even if they don't understand and worry about him.

He's sitting in history. It's his favourite subject because art is a joke – he has no idea who thought that it would be a good idea to hire frustrated artists as teachers, the only thing theirs does is making fun of the pictures he doesn't consider art – and now and then, they get to look at old paintings.

Vermeer and Van Gogh. Dürer and Caravaggio. Turner and Cranach. All those unnamed court painters. He can study these paintings for hours. His history is always surprised when he finds he knows a lot about the subject simply because he wants to understand the pictures and paintings and finds out everything he can about them.

Because of that, he can easily zone out as the teacher talks about the uprisings of 1848. He's too busy looking at one of the paintings in his book, depicting a street blockade in Paris one day in February of that year, the blue and yellows of the men's trousers a stark contrast to the dreary street of the French capital.

He wonders if he could get the same yellow with his water colours.

The bell rings before he's aware of it. Another day has passed. He moves quickly; he wants to try and get the particular shade as quickly as possible.

His good mood evaporates when he enters the house. Dad is home early, and he simply calls out as he passes his office, "Your son's home".

He only refers to him as "your son" to their mother when they had a fight. He's been calling him "your son" a lot recently.

There's tension around Mum's eyes, but she gives him a smile like always. Asks about school. Like every day, he tells her that everything's fine. He's thankful it is. She doesn't have to worry about him as well. Or more than she does, anyway.

After a tense dinner – Mum and Dad don't even look at one another – he goes to his room. All thoughts of yellow and blue have faded from his mind.

Black crayon it is.

He doesn't know how long he draws, how long he is lost in lines and shadows and perspective, but eventually Mum knocks on his door and reminds him that it's a school night. Before she can see what he has drawn, he shoves the pictures under his pillow.

She wouldn't like the sad tone of his drawings. She prefers soft colours, happy themes.

As he looks over _The Discrepancy of Family Life_ (he rarely tells anyone the titles of his paintings because he doesn't think others would get it) he decides she'll never see them. He can't bring himself to throw them away or rip them apart, though; he could never do that. So he hides them in the bottom of a drawer with the feeling that there are going to be others.

He is right. The fighting continues, and eventually they do it when he is at home too, instead of keeping it between them.

He draws and is silent.

He knows Dad will move out before it happens. All his drawings are black lately. Colours don't come easily to him when his life turns out to be bleak. He remembers how vibrant the world looked when he was young. He wishes it could be again.

He makes sure he's still doing good in school so Mum won't be concerned. All in all, he decides it could be worse. He sees Dad at least once a week, and now that his parents are not together anymore, they are able to have a conversation without screaming.

He just misses the colours.

The first time he sees them again, feels the awe he experienced as a child, he is sitting in Dad's car. He's driving him home after they had lunch together and talked, really talked for the first time in – he doesn't know. Dad even asked if he wanted to "do something with art" after he finishes school. He hasn't really thought about "after school" yet. It seems such a huge step he doesn't know where to begin.

Lunch was good. Talking with Dad was good. And yet he is freaking out, because he is suddenly thinking about his future, and –

Colours.

They are back.

He doesn't see the painting, not really, and he shouldn't call it a painting, it's graffiti, but it flashes by, for a moment disrupting his thoughts of "after school", and he sees the vibrant colours he has missed so much.

Suddenly he knows that doing something with art won't be so bad. After all, he has drawn his whole life, and he is never going to give it up. Why not make it his profession?

But that is not what occupies his thoughts the whole way home and the rest of the evening. They are cheerful thoughts though, if doing something illegal can be considered cheerful.

He has never paid attention to graffiti before. He really should have. The neon colours alone –

He buys his first spray paint the very next day. The shop assistant looks at him as if he can already see him running walls, but since it's the truth, he doesn't care.

He knows he isn't allowed to spray. No one is. But he wants to. He needs to. He needs to know how it feels. He needs to see the colours on the wall, the ones he put there.

He'll have to sneak out. He can't walk past Mum with a bag full of cans of spray paint in the evening. He figures as long as he leaves after she's told him goodnight and returns before morning, it should be alright.

He sneaks out that very night. He won't be gone long; he'll find a nice, empty wall in the neighbourhood and he doesn't plan to spray long. Not yet. He has to practice first.

Near his school, there is an abandoned building. He's seen more than enough graffiti there. He should be able to find some space that isn't covered in paint yet.

There is an empty wall at the back. He won't be seen from the street and he quickly takes out his spray can. After trying different positions with the flashlight, he finds one that allows him to work and he begins.

He's decided to spray a tree without really knowing why. He never knows. He just does.

He carefully details the bark and the leaves, learning the weight of the cans, how the colours flow, how long it takes for them to dry, his hands slowly starting to cramp. He doesn't notice.

An hour later he is done and about to step back and admire his graffiti, his very first but definitely not last graffiti, someone says behind him, "Not half bad for a newbie".

He jumps and turns around. He only relaxes once he realizes that the guy who seems to be a little older than himself is a sprayer as well. Can't be anything else, with the cans in his hand and his dirty, colour-splashed t-shirt.

"How do you know – "

"You didn't hear me coming. You learn to keep an ear out, even while spraying". The guy steps closer and scrutinizes it. "Your first?"

"Yeah".

He holds out his hand. "Max".

"Richard" he says and shakes it.

"So, you're gonna sign it?"

He's never signed any of his paintings before. He's never thought about showing them to anyone else but his parents – or teachers when he has to draw at school – so there was no need.

He turns to look at the painting again and bites his lip. He can't sign with his real name. He did technically commit a crime, and he doesn't think "Richard" sounds cool enough for the graffiti scene.

He thinks about it for a second, then he sprays "Raz" in big black letters under the tree. It sounds as good as any name.

Max laughs. "You got talent, kid".

Max becomes his best friend. It's new for him, to have a friend who appreciates painting as much as he does. Mum is happy when he invites Max home, even if he's already twenty, has finished school and doesn't seem to be doing – anything, really. Except what they can't tell Mum, of course.

He sneaks out at least once a week. Soon he covers whole walls with pictures. Sometimes they are filled with the colours he loves, sometimes they are black. He decides on a whim. Sometimes Max accompanies him, sometimes he meets someone else, sometimes he's alone. He's happy either way.

His marks don't drop. He is careful; he wants to get into UAL, and both his parents are very proud.

His last year at school passes quicker than he has hoped, and then he is accepted. He is going to UAL. He is going to study painting.

He can't believe it.

The night after he receives the letter, he returns to the tree. His first graffiti is still there. No one cares enough about an abandoned building to clean it. While he has adorned countless others, even protected ones because nothing can't be beautified with art, this will always be his favourite. He keeps a picture of it in his room.

It's the graffiti that showed him the way, that brought him friends, that told him who he is.

A few months later, he will run into a strange man while he's trying to escape the police, and after he managed that, he is going to learn that his knowledge of paint has other uses besides art.

For now, he is content to look at the tree.


End file.
